


The Snake and the Dwarf

by days4daisy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crossover, Episode: s08e06 The Iron Throne, Gen, Loki is Living His Best Life, Norse Gods in Westeros, Season/Series 08, Shapeshifting, Tyrion Less So
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-05 07:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20485448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: There are many gods. Gods of love and fertility. Gods of war and thunder. Gods of harvest. Gods of rebirth. Gods, too, of mischief. Fitting for an imp to draw the gaze of the latter set.





	The Snake and the Dwarf

Tyrion hears the hiss first. A low, grating sound, like forged metal plunged to water. It takes a minute yet for sound to become sight. Then, he sees the snake. A proud thing, black as the longest night with eyes green as summer leaves.

Tyrion has a prison cell to hold him, but within it he is not chained. Those who keep him fear his tongue, not his meager arms or legs. Much has transpired since he last sat in this cell. The threat was from a different queen that time. A sister now buried under the walls she shielded herself behind.

If he chose, he could distance himself from the beast. Crawl to a far corner, or bang the door for the guard. Tyrion stays where he sits on the floor.

The snake grows and forms like potter's clay. A sleek, slender body becomes arms and legs. Fangs become a smile. Black scales melt to skin white as the ash now blanketing King's Landing. Gold chains dip from the crown of his head and braid between strands of midnight black hair. Rings adorn his every finger, each topped with a more impressive stone than the last.

There are those who believe in the Seven. Others like the Red Woman dedicate themselves to the Lord of Light. But there are other gods too who, now and then, turn their interest towards the world of men. In these times of upheaval, a visit of this nature should not surprise Tyrion. War and its aftermath are apt times for a god to play.

"Are you truly here again?" the god Loki asks with exasperation. "I thought you were rid of this cell after that last escape. I must admit, I didn't see the bit with the crossbow coming. Quite the twist."

There are many gods. Gods of love and fertility. Gods of war and thunder. Gods of harvest. Gods of rebirth. Gods, too, of mischief. Fitting for an imp to draw the gaze of the latter set. The life of a dwarf is a cruel joke, after all, a fact no less true for one born of Lannister wealth.

Tyrion has met the god Loki many times. In drinking halls and outside brothels. Along wooded paths and, last time, in this very cell one day before Tyrion's trial by combat. Poor Oberyn - Tyrion wonders often if mischief played a role in his fate.

He refuses to wonder what role Loki had in what followed, though. Jamie's decision to release him. Shae warming his father's bed.

"What do you want?" Tyrion asks.

Loki raises a brow. "Touchy. You're the one who can't seem to remain a free man." He seats himself next to Tyrion, a jangle of chains and power. Though Tyrion cannot say he's glad for the company, at least he will strain his neck less than while Loki stood.

"It is an imp's nature to fail at things," Tyrion tells him. "If you studied our kind better, you would know this."

Loki sniffs. "That sounds like a dreadful use of my time," he says. "Enough. Tell me, whose rule did you belittle this time with that sharp tongue of yours? This blasted realm changes hands so often, it's impossible to keep up." He rubs jeweled hands together. "It's quite exciting!"

"Hardly," Tyrion mumbles, hands sinking into his lap. "One power rises and another falls. Like tides coming ashore. It must seem rather tiresome to your lot."

It was to be different this time. She was to be different.

"My lot is tiresome in its own right," Loki says.

Given the all-powerful nature of the gods, Tyrion imagines this to be true. Ego and temper must abound in excess. He wonders if Loki knows many of his own kind. If he does, Tyrion doubts he likes them very much. Loki is rather particular about the company he keeps. Tyrion supposes he should feel flattered.

Would Daenerys’ guard hear their conversation if he crossed near enough now? Or would he find Tyrion alone in talks with his own madness?

"Still," Loki agrees, "the reason for your capture is not important. Of greater interest, I've come up with a plan for your escape. It's quite charming, with a nice bit of symbolism."

"You know I hate symbolism," Tyrion tells him.

Loki waves a dismissive hand. "You hate all things pertaining to poetry. Despite my good taste, I won't hold it against you. Now, are you listening? The plan begins the morning after a heavy rain-"

"I'm not leaving."

Loki scoffs. His hair washes over shoulders cloaked in jade silk. "Fine," he grumbles, "we can forgo the morning after a heavy rain. But I'm telling you, the visual would be quite striking-"

"I am not leaving this cell," Tyrion tells him. "I mean to stay here."

Loki looks down at Tyrion like he's sprouted three heads. "Do you expect a pardon for your crimes?" he asks.

Tyrion smiles bitterly. "Not one bit."

Loki's eyes narrow. "In that case, your plan is foolish, and I do not condone it," he says. "I spent quite a bit of time and thought on mine, on the other hand. It's good. Especially the part with the passing merchant caravan-"

"No, Loki," Tyrion says.

Loki's gaze froths like the sea before a storm. "You don't get to tell me no," he says. "Your kind accepts and gives thanks for the mercy shown to you. Have I made myself clear?"

Loki is the perfect god for Tyrion. Blustering, jealous, and one for a show no matter the cost. Tyrion feels his own exhaustion as he did standing on the shore of King's Landing. Tired eyes watching as dragonfire rained down and smoke rose from the streets.

"I'm tired, Loki," he says.

Loki frowns. "Your kind have sleep for that."

"I'm tired, and I'm mortal," Tyrion says. "One like you cannot understand. Sleep is no cure for this."

Loki snorts down at him. "And you claim I'm dramatic."

"I have no power like you, or magic," Tyrion says. "But I have a right to say that it's over. It's time to let go."

Loki's annoyance gives way to something new. A thing that bids him to consider Tyrion with more gravity than he ever has.

At once, Loki grows cold as the stone against Tyrion's back. "Very well," Loki hisses. "May your own kind mourn for you, for I certainly will not."

Loki is gone then. Where he sat, there is only open air.

Tyrion gazes with sad eyes at his missing place. "Goodbye, old friend," he says.

***

Grey Worm comes for him two weeks later.

The first night after the news of Daenerys, Tyrion cries. He cries as he cried when he came upon his brother and sister buried in the rubble of the Red Keep. He cries until he has no voice left to sob. He cries until his eyes burn and his chest aches from its spasms.

After the first night, Tyrion feels nothing.

Life continues around him, but he is a man already dead. Tyrion becomes one with the chill of his cell, watching the sun rise and fall beyond his barred window. Tyrion eats when a guard forces him. He does not when left alone. They give him a bucket of water to wash with, but Tyrion still feels unclean.

When Grey Worm comes, Tyrion is glad. His final hope is for his end to be without spectators. He does not wish to see Jon die, and he does not wish it on Jon to see him. There has been too much death to watch in recent days. A quick, uneventful end would be fitting for a dwarf.

Tyrion hears the hiss like the crackle of cooking meat. Behind Grey Worm's legs, the snake poises to strike.

"No!" Tyrion shouts. He stomps at the snake with a dirt-crusted boot. The serpent bares its fangs, weaving to and fro. Tyrion reads anger in its slit eyes, venom dripping from its mouth.

Grey Worm does not expect his lunge and believes it is for him. He grabs Tyrion by the hair as his fellow chains Tyrion's arms and legs. They pay no mind to the snake who slithers ever closer. Perhaps they cannot see it or sense the peril they are in.

The snake rises again, tail rattling. Tyrion screams and pounds his feet against the floor. The snake rears back with an awful hiss. Its eyes are wide and wet and mad.

Grey Worm drags Tyrion by his hair from the cell. He stumbles in his chains, boots scraping stone floors.

Finally, Tyrion thinks. Joy floods his chest like the morning after a heavy rain.

***

Tyrion knows this table. He knows its sturdy chairs. He knows the sunlight as it sifts across the beige-stone floor. He knows the wear of the wood beneath his fingers and the sound of boots crossing in the hall. He knows the Hand’s token pinned to his cloak.

So much of it, the same. How is it fair, or right, or good, that so much would be the same.

With care, Tyrion fits each chair to its proper place at the table. Heavy wooden legs scratch the floor as he pushes them into position.

He pauses in his preparation. There is a sound, like the whisper of a breeze. The shift of blankets on a warm bed. The hiss of a serpent.

The beast coils up a table leg and glides to its countertop. Its tongue flicks in greeting.

“You’re not welcome here,” Tyrion tells him.

The snake’s eyes glint as if terribly amused. Its green gaze is sharp as blades with a grin to match.

The god Loki settles himself atop the table, long legs dangling off its edge. A crown of chains slopes down his forehead, and black rings pierce his ears. Were Tyrion to wager, he would say Loki looks even closer to the color of snow today. Funny, as the first breath of spring whistles over winter-battered lands.

“A god is welcome in all places, dwarf,” Loki says. His voice is light and full of cheer. “So, Hand of the King yet again. How exciting!”

“Is it?” Tyrion asks. And though his tone bears sarcasm, he is curious. What excites an infinite being. One who looks upon the follies of a mortal world and laughs.

“I must say, it’s a bit of a shock,” Loki admits. “Of all the names you could have uttered. The bastard you’ve prized since that dull affair at Winterfell. Or your wife! Did you forget you took a wife? I certainly have not.”

“Unconsummated,” Tyrion reminds him.

“I’m well aware,” Loki says with a grin. Tyrion refuses to dwell on this statement. “Even the knight-woman, the warrior of Tarth. A novice at politics but a natural leader. And yet, you chose the broken Stark boy as king. Why?”

Tyrion smiles. “You are a god, are you not? You must know the reason, as you know all things.”

“I wish to hear it from you,” Loki says. His grin gives way to impatience.

With a sigh, Tyrion pulls a chair from its place under the tabletop. A side chair, not the head seat he will resume upon the next council. “My lord is broken of body, but the land is broken of spirit. Our people need one without motive or ego. One who knows our history and the lessons it has wrought.”

Loki gazes down at Tyrion. “One with stories,” he deduces.

Tyrion nods. “You of all should appreciate the poetry in that.”

The sentiment makes the god sprawled atop the table snort. “You presume to know what I appreciate, runt?”

Tyrion shrugs. His answer draws a twinkle from his audience’s powerful eyes.

“Speaking of stories,” Loki says, “I have some ideas for your new role that I believe you’ll find quite charming.”

“Not interested,” Tyrion replies.

“Oh come now.” Loki waves a dismissive hand. “We’ve been through much, you and I. Our paths have crossed too often during times of pain and despair.” His jeweled rings gleam in the sunlight.

“Not by my choice, I assure you,” Tyrion remarks.

Loki hums with boredom and brushes his hair over a shoulder. Braided chains jingle against his back. “It would be nice to enjoy the fruits of life for once, together. That’s what I’m telling you.”

Enjoying the fruits of life is hardly the way Tyrion would describe the current state of his affairs. That old weariness lingers in his bones. Every morning, Tyrion struggles to drag himself from under his covers. His nights never go uninterrupted. He wakes with screams that scratch his throat raw.

But it is his king's charge that he spend the rest of his life fixing his mistakes. It is a command that Tyrion takes seriously, impossible though it seems.

Again, Tyrion says, “Not interested.”

“Oh?” Loki grins. “Not even in this one idea I’ve given quite careful thought to? Allow me to whet your appetite: it involves a brothel, a honeycomb, and a jackass.”

Tyrion crosses unamused arms. “You stole that from me,” he accuses.

“I steal nothing,” Loki balks with a sniff. “Any similarity is pure coincidence.”

Tyrion glares up at Loki. Loki smiles in return.

With a sigh, Tyrion climbs off his chair. He returns after fetching a pitcher of wine and two cups. “Go on,” Tyrion says. "But if I enjoy this story, I get to claim it as my own.”

Tyrion blinks when Loki plucks the refreshments from his hands. The god gives the wine pitcher a sniff. His grimace is so theatrical that Tyrion cannot bite back his laugh.

"I agree to your terms," Loki says, "but not to your choice of drink. That is ghastly. Here." He taps the pitcher's side with one slender finger. "Much better." Loki pours two cups and holds one out to Tyrion.

Tyrion takes it, eyes narrowed. "It's not poisoned, is it? I've had a string of bad luck with that."

"Only one way to find out," Loki says. He raises his cup in a toast. With a sigh, Tyrion does the same.

His first sip comes with a groan. It is remarkably good. Sweet and smooth, unlike anything he has ever tasted.

Loki turns, cross-legged on the tabletop, and faces Tyrion in full. “Now then," he says. "A man brings a jackass and a honeycomb into a brothel…”


End file.
